


Things Seem Pleasing

by deaddove



Series: Teaspoons [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bad Touch, Breeding Kink, Choking, Cock Warming, Come Inflation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Drug-Induced Sex, Extremely Underage, Feminization, Humiliation, Just the Tip, Knotting, Lingerie, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Insertion, Playmating, Vigilantism, Watersports, non-consensual abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddove/pseuds/deaddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never thought being a good Omega would be so hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meat Links

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Diablerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablerie/gifts).



> There is nothing redeeming about this.

Stiles glances back at the police cruiser pulled up on the curb. His dad makes a gesture at him from the driver’s seat, a stilted half-wave salute, and Stiles turns back to the front door. He feels small on the porch, nervous as he punches the tip of his finger in the soft plastic of a doorbell. He’s been here a million times, before he was even tall enough to reach the bell.

He’s glancing back at his dad again, because it’s different this time, as the door finally swings open.

“Stiles!” Scott shouts happily, and Stiles turns into his best friend’s embrace. He feels better in the hug, warmer, and he hears his dad drive off with a light tap on the horn as goodbye.

Stiles lets Scott drag him in the house, and they run up the stairs three steps at a time.

“Mom got me the new Spyro game,” Scott brags, and they huddle in front of the tv.

They play happily, and Stiles completely forgets about his nervousness. This is easy, their playing familiar and no-brainer. He and Scott crawl on each other while they play, tangles and awkward remote angles, wires crossing. They munch on fritos until their sticky thumbs jam the buttons.

It’s normal until Scott’s dad knocks on the doorframe, finally coming out of his office. Stiles looks up with a curly chip hanging from his mouth and feels himself get hot with embarrassment. Mr. McCall looks super serious.

“Have you eaten lunch yet, Stiles?” he asks.

Stiles nods, rendered mute. His dad had made sure to give him a hearty meal before coming over, saying he’ll need the energy.

“Good. Why don’t we head to the living room and start?”

Scott groans. “Can’t we do it in like another hour? We finally unlocked a new portal.”

“Your mom will be coming home soon, Scott. I’ll need to get started on dinner.”

“Why can’t we do it here? Me and Stiles wrestle all the time.”

Mr. McCall crosses his arms. “You know the rules, Scott. Downstairs.”

They go reluctantly, Stiles and Scott’s attention straying on the television screen until it’s out of sight.

In the living room, the coffee table has been turned on its side and pushed to the wall, a thick quilt spread on the hardwood floor. Scott and Stiles glance at each other.

“Go ahead and take your clothes off, boys,” McCall instructs. He takes a seat on the armchair, looking over the blanket. Stiles pulls his shirt over his head and yanks his shorts down. The living room is warm, and Stiles shivers in anticipation. He wiggles in place, waiting for more instruction.

“Good,” Mr. McCall says. “Stiles, do you know what position you need to go in?”

Stiles nods, goes down on the thick blanket, hands and knees. He looks over his shoulder at Mr. McCall for approval.

“Good, Stiles. Spread your knees more. You have to be able to take the weight of your Alpha.”

Stiles looks down, face burning as he spreads himself more. His body feels tingly now, his underwear itchy.

“Drop your shoulders, Stiles. An Alpha’s seed will never take if you don’t lay right.”

Stiles folds his arms until his shoulders and cheek are pressed to the soft blanket, his bottom raised high.

“Good boy. You’ll be participating in playmating groups in no time.”

Stiles clenches his eyes closed at the thought, imagining all the kids in town rubbing together. He knows a few from school who have already been coached through beginning playmating and attend the free group sessions at the civic center, like Lydia and Cora. He squirms at the idea.

“Scott, what do you think of Stiles’ posture?”

Stiles looks up at his friend.

“Um,” Scott stutters. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dad,” Scott complains in embarrassment.

Mr. McCall laughs a little and must decide to give Scott a break.

“Scott, kneel down behind Stiles. That’s it; a little closer.”

Stiles feels the heat coming off of his friend as he settles behind Stiles, between his feet. He scoots closer until his hips rest firmly against Stiles’ butt, and he can feel Scott’s little Alpha cock through his underwear, a small, hot mound. Stiles purrs.

“Remember it’s important to always check how wet your Omega is before proceeding with anything.”

Scott makes a small, guttural noise above him, and Stiles feels Scott’s hands grasp his cheeks and pull them apart. A firm thumb presses hard and relentless against his sensitive hole through his white briefs. Stiles mewls, pushing back.

“Stiles!” Mr. McCall barks, and Stiles feels his body go loose and limp in alarm. “A good Omega is patient and takes only what their Alpha gives.”

“He isn’t wet,” Scott says, thumb rubbing over Stiles’ crack, seeking. His voice is parched, shivery.

“That’s okay,” Mr. McCall comforts. “Everyone has their own pace. Reach under him and rub his cocklet.”

Stiles yowls when Scott cups his little cock. His thighs tremble and tighten as Scott squeezes and strokes. Alpha cock frots against his bum frantically.

“That’s not right, Scott.”

Scott growls, running his hips in uneven circles, and Stiles whimpers into the blanket, his own hands reaching back to open his cheeks for Scott, begging--

Scott and his searing touches are removed, and Stiles sits up as he watches Scott’s dad drag his flailing, growling son to the stairs. He sits Scott down on the first step and towers over him.

“I guess it’s too early for anything but one-on-one lessons. Scott, I’m so disappointed. I told the Sheriff he could trust me to see you both through your first playmating, and now I’m going to have to explain that my own son couldn’t follow instructions.”

Scott looks like he wants to sink in a hole.

“Go up to your room and think about what you’re going to tell Mr. Stilinski when he comes to pick up Stiles. No videogames.”

Scott trumps up the stairs dejectedly, and Mr. McCall returns to Stiles on the blanket.

“Are you going to call my dad?” Stiles asks.

Mr. McCall rubs a hand down his back, and Stiles arches into it.

“No, baby boy. I promised I’d coach you, and I will. Get back in position.”

Stiles nods eagerly and folds back over. He adjusts himself the way he’d been told earlier, and is delighted when Mr. McCall strips himself of his shirt and lines up behind him. He’s much bigger than Scott, his thick arms caging him in, his chest hair rubbing against Stiles’ back. He wiggles a little, searching.

“Such a good Omega,” Mr. McCall whispers by his ear, his large palms stroking Stiles’ chest and belly. Those hands glide from his belly to his lower back, fingers dipping into Stiles’ underwear and pulling them over the slope of his butt. Stiles looks back in doubt.

“I thought this was only play?”

“It is, baby,” Mr. McCall says, rubbing Stiles’ newly exposed skin.

“But the rules say I have to keep my panties on,” Stiles squeaks.

“That’s only for you and Scott. I’m a coach, so I can play without them.”

Stiles looks at him, trying to detect trickery.

“Okay,” he eventually concedes.

Mr. McCall smiles and grabs Stiles’ neck gently, pushing him back down to position.

A thick finger circles Stiles’ hole, and without the underwear, it’s totally different. He feels raw and exposed, and Stiles cries out when the tip presses just barely inside.

“Good Omegas should always be wet for their Alphas, Stiles,” Mr. McCall says, his voice sounding weird and deep, rumbly. “Don’t you want to be good?”

“Yes sir,” Stiles pants, wanting to move closer but not wanting to get in trouble again.

Mr. McCall’s finger slides inside Stiles, and he can’t breathe. It’s warm and thick, and goes in so easily. It begins to pull out and the ridges of his knuckles is even better this way. Stiles whines when it’s gone.

“Easy,” Mr. McCall placates. “There we are. Just needed to open you up.”

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he feels a warm trickle down the back of his thigh. Mr. McCall drapes over him, his mouth open and planting tonguey kisses across his shoulders. Stiles feels tacky and slick.

“I knew you’d be a good Omega, such a pretty little boy,” he whispers, his finger pumping in and out of Stiles’ Omega hole.

Stiles moans helplessly as the coarse feeling rubs against his insides where he aches and needs.

“And so tight. A boy like you doesn’t need an inexperienced touch, isn’t that right, Stiles? Scott couldn’t help you, could he?”

“Yes sir!” Stiles wails, agreeing without understanding, as Mr. McCall pushes another finger inside. It stretches him and makes him want to turn to liquid. Mr. McCall uses his other hand to tug on his cocklet. It’s swollen and sore suddenly, and Stiles almost can’t handle the contact.

“You’ve already popped your little knot. What a little whore.”

Stiles sobs into his arm in a confused daze. Mr. McCall’s fingers dance around his baby knot, pulling and pinching.

“Your little Omega knot is only good for playing, isn’t it Stiles? Only good for being cute?”

Stiles can’t help himself this time, has to grind back against Mr. McCall’s fingers. They curl so deeply, and Stiles arches his back, reveling in the bigness of it all.

“You’re going to move without permission now?” Mr. McCall growls, his teeth sharp against Stiles’ neck. He takes his fingers away, leaving Stiles open and empty.

“Nonono,” he wails, reaching back to cling to Mr. McCall’s thighs. “Please don’t go. I’m good, I’m a good Omega.”

His teeth let up.

“All right.”

Stiles sags in relief.

“But I’m not sure you’re behaving like a true Omega would.”

“I’m good, I’m good,” Stiles chants frantically, afraid. He wants to refute Mr. McCall, but what if he’s right? Stiles doesn’t know how to be a good Omega.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Mr. McCall says, stroking his fingers into Stiles until it makes a wet noise every plunge. “I’ve got just the thing to fix you.”

Stiles nods his head rapidly as Mr. McCall’s big hands grab his wrists and guide his smaller ones to his butt cheeks.

“Hold yourself open for me like the slutty Omega you are.”

Stiles obeys. His face is wet.

He pulls his own cheeks apart, hips twitching. He hears the click and shuffle of a belt being undone and fears for a second that he’s about to be spanked, but Mr. McCall just presses closer against Stiles.

“You’re so small,” he moans to Stiles, and he feels something searing hot press against his hole. He yelps at the feeling, the blunt heat smearing his slick around and pushing against his hole. Stiles breathes quick and heavy as he holds his bottom for Mr. McCall. Large hands hold his hips and thighs as the pressure on his hole grows.

“What,” Stiles licks his dry lips. “What is that?”

“My Alpha cock,” Mr. McCall groans. “Be a good boy, Stiles, and just take the tip. Just the tip now.”

It pushes, and Stiles loses his breath. It’s so big, it’s going inside, but it’s too much, forcing him wide and gaping. Stiles feels his eyes water, and his cries wetly into the blanket.

“No, it’s too much,” he complains.

“Not the tip, I promise,” Mr. McCall grunts. “That’s all, no more.”

“Okay,” Stiles sobs as he feels his hole finally split, and the bulbous cockhead gets sucked inside. He and Mr. McCall moan in tandem.

“Such a good baby boy, Stiles. I’ll make you better.”

Stiles doesn’t dare move, speared where he is. He feels pinned in place, Mr. McCall’s heavy weight surrounding him as his whole body shakes. Stiles cries messily, confused and tired. His body burns, in ways he can’t determine are good or not, and he feels Mr. McCall’s Alpha cock throbbing and pulsing where he’s inside and stretching his rim so harshly.

“This is what you were meant for,” Mr. McCall growls, his hands bruising. “Doesn’t it feel good, Stiles?”

“I don’t know,” he wails, clenching down and moaning. Everything is hot and wet, and he just wants to lay down. He wants his dad.

“I know,” Mr. McCall assures, then flexes forward.

His fat cock slides deep and unforgiving into Stiles’ plush insides, and Stiles shouts. It feels so big, it’s everywhere. His little cock is on fire, dripping milky come down his thighs. He looks between his arms at the slope of his belly and can see the bump of Mr. McCall’s cock as it goes deeper.

“I wish you were old enough to breed,” Scott’s dad moans, rolling himself in and out of Stiles. “You’re going to be coveted when you’re fertile.”

Stiles gasps through the thrusts, Mr. McCall’s powerful thighs slapping against his bottom. He’s not listening to Mr. McCall’s soft words, only feels the humid way his mouth whispers against his ear. His cock feels full and ready to explode, his stomach spasming.

Each glide of his heavy cock in Stiles’ gushing hole leaves him more open and hungry, and he begins rocking back and forth, anticipating each gouging thrust. He purrs and cries, hands no longer able to hold his cheeks open. They drop to the blanket, prone, as Mr. McCall plows against him.

Stiles feels himself begin to tense somewhere deep where Mr. McCall’s cockhead rams, and his cries grow louder as the force of the sensation becomes too good. He can’t open his eyes or move, can only scream and beg as the feeling of the cock in him gets impossibly good. His heart is wild, his cocklet pulsing and begging attention, but he’s too scared of the feeling sweeping over him to move.

“That’s right, bitch, lock down on me.”

Stiles is too out of his mind to be shocked at the swear and cries out ragged and desperately as his little cock erupts and his insides are swept in a seizure of tightening and spasming, so strong that Mr. McCall can only thrust through the tightness a few inches in and out. He groans loudly, slams flush against Stiles’ hole and stays there. Stiles shakes, made nonverbal, his lower body vibrating with its effort to lock Mr. McCall inside.

He feels something hot and molten soaking his hole and straining his belly full.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Mr. McCall coos and picks him up, allowing his own weight to keep him seated on his cock. He sits down on the couch, and lifts Stiles up by his hips and drops him back down on the length of his cock. “I’ll train you to lock tighter, and one day when you’re bigger, you’ll be able to milk my Alpha knot.”

Later in the afternoon, after Mr. McCall has taken him to wipe down in the bathroom and retrieved a capri sun from the kitchen, Stiles sits on the staircase with Scott, sniffling. He hears his dad knock on the door and spies Scott’s dad greeting him.

“I’m worried about Stiles,” he says to his dad. “He isn’t responding to playmating the way a healthy Omega should. I think I should spend some one-on-one sessions with him until his instincts settle.”

Stiles’ dad finds him on the staircase and crouches down until they’re at eye level.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, opening his arms. Stiles lets himself be enveloped and lifted, hiccoughing. “But I think it’s a little early to be deciding what’s normal.”

Stiles looks at Mr. McCall over his dad’s shoulder as he’s carried out. He gives him a wide smile, and Stiles clings a little harder to his dad’s neck.

 


	2. Cherry Coke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse. As they do.

The next time Stiles’ dad leaves him on Scott’s front porch, Stiles begs him not to. He can still hear the phone conversation, the fuzzy sound of his dad’s voice mingling with Mr. McCall’s through the receiver. They have two land lines, one in his dad’s room and another downstairs. Stiles is really good at creeping across the hall and easing the phone away from its stand without making a sound.

He listens to all of the phone calls their house receives, as an honorary deputy-in-training. It’s his job to hear about all the goings-on of Beacon Hills, especially if it pertains to his own house.

“I’m not  sure that’s appropriate,” his dad says.

“I’m only worried about him.”

Stiles nearly drops the phone upon hearing Mr. McCall’s voice so close to his ear. He feels a tremor in his arms.

“He’s like a son to me, and if I can help him through these behavioral problems—”

“Behavioral—? Look, Rafael, even if Stiles is somehow having problems, you’re not exactly an expert.”

He hears his dad huff. Stiles’ stomach twists as they talk about him.

“Has he talked to you about the other day? About what happened?”

His dad doesn’t answer.

“He wouldn’t settle. He rejected Scott over and over.”

“They’re too young,” his dad sighs.

“Let me just try to coach him through some positions. Without Scott. Maybe he isn’t ready for an Alpha, but he needs to know the basics.”

There is a long pause.

“All right.”

“I’ll let you know when the house is empty.”

Now Stiles watches silently as Mr. McCall swings the door open and smiles.

He looks for Scott out of habit, but quickly recalls that his best friend and Mrs. McCall are out of town for the afternoon. Scott’s dad cups the back of Stiles’ neck and guides him into the house.

“Hey kiddo. You want a drink?”

Stiles shakes his head.

Mr. McCall’s face creases up a bit, and he crouches down to Stiles’ level.

“What’s the matter? You usually can’t get a word out fast enough.”

Stiles fiddles with his own hands. “Do we have to play today?”

Mr. McCall pets his hair.

“Oh, honey. It’s all right. You’ll like playing soon. It’s an Omega’s duty.”

Stiles just stares.

Scott’s dad rubs his big hands over his sides, stopping to cup the tops of Stiles’ thighs. He feels itchy and hot.

“Why don’t you have some cherry coke?” he asks, palms heavy, fingers dipping just slightly into the swell of Stiles’ butt. “Something to cool you down?”

“Dad doesn’t let me have that. It makes me,” Stiles rolls his eyes and affects the demeanor of a cross, impatient father, “ _unbearable_.”

Scott’s dad laughs. “Stiles, sweetie, I think I can handle wriggly little boys just fine.”

He goes to the fridge, withdraws a frosty coke bottle and pours it over ice. Stiles can hear the fizz bubbling in the cup from where he stands, wilted and subdued. Mr. McCall holds it out to him.

“My treat, son,” he says with a grin. The drink is dark and syrupy and irresistible. Stiles gulps it down eagerly until the burn of it makes his eyes leak. His jaw aches at the sweetness.

“Let’s play, baby boy,” Mr. McCall murmurs, hands squeezing at his neck. His fingers are cold from handling the coke bottle. He takes the empty cup from him, and Stiles moves to the living room, expecting the pallet again, but Mr. McCall stops him.

“I’m a coach, remember? I have different rules.”

He leads Stiles to the master bedroom. It’s clean and smells like Mrs. Melissa’s lotion. Stiles has only been in here once, when he and Scott were playing larsen and stole Mr. McCall’s favorite tie. It’s gold and maroon, and Stiles can see it still hanging off the closet door knob.

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” Mr. McCall says gently.

Stiles feels his face burn. “Even my panties?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

Stiles fumbles with his shorts and baseball shirt. It takes him some time to untie his tennis shoes and get his socks off. He scoots to the center of the bed, curing his knees up to his chest. Mr. McCall slides off his nice button-down and yanks his belt out of the loops in one smooth tug.

“Go to position.”

Stiles turns over, his legs shaking, and goes to his hands and knees. He worries he’s about to be spanked with the belt. A hot hand comes to the center of his back and presses until Stiles’ chest is touching the mattress.

“Good Omega.”

A body lines up behind him, and Stiles clenches his eyes shut. He wants to play with Scott again, not Mr. McCall.

“Why can’t I playmate with Scott?” he whimpers as thick fingers trail along his spine and neck.

“You’re so needy, baby. An untrained Omega like you is a risk to younger Alphas. I’ll give you what you need, so don’t worry.”

Stiles doesn’t know what he needs so badly, at least until Mr. McCall’s curled knuckles graze down the crack of his ass and rub over his little hole.

Mr. McCall moans as he kneads a thumb over the pucker. Stiles has shivers, the calloused graze over his tender cunt making him writhe.

“You’re swollen, baby. Are you that hungry for another cock?”

“Nooo,” Stiles whines pitifully. He remembers the strain of his flesh as it was pulled around Mr. McCall’s Alpha cock. He feels his own slick ooze down the backs of his thighs. Mr. McCall’s hands pull his cheeks apart, and Stiles feels a cool stream of air blow over his wet hole. He jerks a little, but is held in place.

“Stay still, honey. Be a good Omega.”

Stiles is still twitching when he feels Mr. McCall’s hot breath closing in, then a slippery swipe of tongue right along his crack. It’s hot and Stiles feels that scratchy crawling under his skin again. He presses his face into the comforter, wishing he were under it. He feels too naked, the air cold where Mr. McCall places dirty kisses. He wiggles his tongue over his hole, prodding and lathing.

“Your creamy cunt is so good, Stiles. It was made for Daddy’s cock to breed, wasn’t it?”

Stiles cries out as his little cunt is sucked. He can feel the rasp of facial hair on his cheeks, the burning of his tongue slipping just in then out again. He feels Mr. McCall press his face as close as he can to his hole, until the tip of his nose drags along Stiles’ crack. He hears a deep inhale, then the sharp press of teeth pinching the swollen pucker of his throbbing cunt.

He squeals, knees trembling. He feels his whole body getting heavy and warm. It’s hard to breathe.

Stiles reaches down to squeeze where he’s aching, his little dick hard and dripping.

“You little slut,” Mr. McCall snaps, yanking Stiles’ hand away from his own cock and folding it behind his back. “What a bad Omega. You want to be punished? Your dick is only good for looking.”

He bites Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shouts, the teeth sharp and pinching.

“Sweet, obedient Omegas stay soft for their Alphas and only feel pleasure getting fucked.”

Stiles sobs quietly. No one has ever told him it would be so hard being an Omega. He’s never been good with rules, and he already knows he can’t meet Mr. McCall’s expectations. His cocklet always gets hard when he’s aroused.

“D-Dad,” he sniffles. “Dad says it’s normal...”

Mr. McCall growls a little, and Stiles’ heart thuds painfully. His grips on Stiles’ wrist is tight as he starts to rut against his ass. That terrifying weight is rubbing back and forth over Stiles’ cunt, grinding  and pulling on the sensitive skin. It’s hard to open his eyes, or turn his head away from Mr. McCall’s jaws.

“Your dad is a Beta, sweetheart,” he grunts, rolling his cock against Stiles. “You think a Beta knows more than an Alpha? I’m your daddy right now, Stiles.”

Stiles isn’t sure. He knows a lot of Alphas at school who aren’t very smart. Mr. McCall licks along Stiles’ neck. It feels sticky and cold.

“Mr. McCall?” he whimpers in a small voice.

“ _Shh_ _,_ ” he breathes in Stiles’ ear.

“But—”

Stiles shrieks when a hand slaps down on his butt, directly over his hole. He heaves a breath as he stings and burns.

“No more talking, baby,” Mr. McCall moans. “Don’t worry, it’ll be so easy soon. I’ll rock you right to sleep.”

Stiles sniffles just as he feels that pressure again, that warm hard press against his leaking cunt. He hold his breath, grips the blanket beneath him. He can feel the rub of Mr. McCall’s thigh hair on his legs, where he’s spread wide and low. He feels Mr. McCall shift, the jolt of his _Alpha Cock_ against his lax hole making him whine.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” he whispers in his ear. Stiles burns in embarrassment, but he nods. He remembers the terrifying push of his cock against his insides, crammed tight and full. He pants, the air thin and hard to get to. He’s scared, the wide, wide tip of Mr. McCall’s arousal straining against his rim as it pushes in.

It’s hard to move, his arms and legs feeling disconnected.

“Daddy,” he calls out in a small voice, hardly able to lift his tongue to get the sound out.

Mr. McCall groans loud and broken, and Stiles is suddenly speared open, the punishing length of cock making his hole gape and squelch wetly.

“I’m here, sweet boy,” Mr. McCall breathes against his neck, open mouth dripping spit into Stiles’ hairline. “Daddy’s right here.”

Stiles can’t breathe anymore, his chest crushed under Mr. McCall’s weight. When he begins to thrust, the veiny, tight skin of Alpha cock scrapes harshly against his rim, overlarge and too fast. His belly feels pummeled, Mr. McCall’s grip ensuring he doesn’t slip away from the unforgiving jab of his cock. Stiles wants to touch himself, relieve the terrible pressure in his gut where Mr. McCall strikes violently.

He tries to call for his dad again, but finds his throat closed and his head pounding. He reaches for his neck, where the pressure is greatest and runs into Mr. McCall’s hard knuckles. Stiles squeezes out a high pitched cry.

“ _Easy_ ,” Mr. McCall grunts, jerking his cock into the place where Stiles is tender and new. Stiles struggles against the hands around his throat with all the strength he can muster, pawing at Mr. McCall uselessly. “Don’t struggle, honey.”

He’s dizzy, his body crawling with the sensation of Mr. McCall’s coarse hair rubbing his ass raw, his thick, heavy balls smacking the sensitive skin between his Omega cunt and cocklet, his tight fingers crushing his neck. He can’t stop the continuous whine as he cries, as Mr. McCall grinds into him until it’s all he can feel, until he feels that frightening twisting in his belly.

“Yeah, baby, so good,” he hears slurred into his ear. “Just need an Alpha to fuck that attitude out, I’m so close, honey, gonna come.”

Stiles can’t lift his hands anymore, just sags into the damp mattress as Scott’s dad lets out a series of rapid grunts, his hips slamming harder than ever against his butt, his cock feeling bigger than before.

“That’s it, give up that sloppy cunt, bitch,” he says, as Stiles’ head begins to get fuzzy. His frantic voice is loud in Stiles’ ears. “I could knot you, you’re so loose. Yeah, gonna knot you, you can take it—”

The hard rocking finally stops, and Stiles vaguely registers the sudden, all-consuming stretch inside his cunt. It burns like fire, like when he jumps in the shower before the scorching water adjusts. It’s all he knows until there is nothing else left, and the rest is lost to him.

When Stiles wakes up, he feels like he has a cold. His eyes are crusted shut, and his throat stings with every swallow.

There is a large hand playing with his soft, dry cocklet, tugging the flesh and making his cunt sear and ache.

“Hey, sunshine,” Mr. McCall coos as he pets Stiles’ small cock.

“Can I go home now?” Stiles asks quietly. It hurts to talk, his voice coming out cracked and raspy.

Mr. McCall kisses Stiles’ shoulder blade.

“Almost, Stiles.”

The hand finally leaves his soft cock to prod at his raw hole, and Stiles wails as the fingers swipe into his stinging rim.

“I wanna go home,” he sobs, and shakes his head as Mr. McCall presses his weight down on him again.

“ _Shh_ ,” he gentles, stroking down Stiles’ naked back. “You’ve been so good. Let me train you, okay? You just have to trust me.”

Stiles feels groggy, his head spinning when he tries to look back at Scott’s dad. He just drops back into the pillows and nods. He’s so tired, he just wants to roll over and hug the blankets, but Mr. McCall’s thighs keep him from moving.

“You look so good, baby. I don’t even have to hold your hole open; it’s just gaping for me, showing me the shape of my knot when I plugged you up.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as thick fingers dip into the chasm Mr. McCall has created inside him.

“I can see my come in there, Stiles. Your cunt’s just swallowing it up.”

There is a rustle behind him before Stiles feels a broad warmth rest on his stretched rim. He panics, squirming against Mr. McCall as he forces the tip into his loose entrance.

“ _Nonono_ ,” he cries, aching and sore. He feels torn open and bruised, the swollen skin buzzing with fever.

“Just gotta fill you up, sweetheart, get you trained for carrying,” Scott’s dad mutters quickly, hitching his hips forward so the first few inches of his softened cock are resting in his warm hole. He sighs, and Stiles suddenly feels a vast warmness spread inside, until it spills from his cunt and drips down his thighs. The stench of pee startles Stiles, and his stomach rolls with horror as the urine burns the insides of his thighs.

Mr. McCall moans loud and long as he fills Stiles up until it begins to twinge in his belly.

“No more,” he whines.

“You’ve got to get used to it, Stiles. You were made to be this full.”

Stiles feels his stomach stretch and grow heavy, Mr. McCall’s hands soothing over the swell and shushing him.

“It hurts.”

“Omegas were made to hurt,” Scott’s dad whispers as he pulls out, and hot pee splashes over Stiles’ back as he finishes. Stiles chews on the corner of his pillow and hides his face. He yells when Mr. McCall’s hands go from gentle to heavy, pressing hard against his rounded belly. The pee warming his insides and stuffing him full is forced out of his unclenching hole and sent pouring down his legs and soaking the mattress.

Stiles shivers and heaves, feeling lightheaded.

“Omegas were made to be ruined,” Scott’s dad groans against Stiles’ hairline, rutting into the sopping mess and pressing against Stiles stomach until he thinks he might throw up.

“Why don’t I get you another cherry coke before I take you home?” ****  
** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Mala](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian)


	3. Peaches 'N Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known I had to google "what does urine taste like" for this

Stiles doesn’t argue with his dad anymore.

When it’s time to go play with Mr. McCall, he sits quietly in the back of the cruiser and doesn’t move when his dad hugs him goodbye. He oozes reluctantly out of the car and slouches his way to the front door. Mr. McCall always knows exactly when Stiles reaches the porch, because he opens the door with a broad smile, a bottle of soda in one hand and a wave for the Sheriff in the other. His dad doesn’t even get mad about the pop anymore, Mr. McCall saying “Let me spoil the kid, John.” 

He does.

Stiles accepts the drink because Mr. McCall will force him if he doesn’t. Stiles always thought sugary sodas were supposed to make him hyper, and that’s why his dad doesn’t let him have any at the house. But here, they make him sleepy and confused, itchy and morose. Mr. McCall says it’s to help Stiles relax, and he’s right because when Stiles finishes the whole bottle, his arms and legs are hard to move and his head doesn’t want to stay up.

Mr. McCall takes the soda from his slipping hand and picks him up. He spills like syrup on the bed, hardly recalling the trip from the kitchen to the upstairs bedroom, letting Mr. McCall arrange him as he likes. He feels sticky already, Mr. McCall’s flat palms hot on his thighs as he undresses him.

“Such a sweet thing,” he murmurs, from somewhere far above Stiles. 

Mr. McCall is already naked, and he crawls up the mattress, something silky and light purple balled in his fist. Stiles wiggles in confusion, as Mr. McCall grabs his ankles and lifts his feet. He smiles at Stiles and licks at his toes. Stiles giggles, squirming away, but Mr. McCall hooks the stringy fabric on his trapped legs, and Stiles feels the first burnings of shame. 

“Those are Miss Melissa’s...” he mutters, uncertain.

“She wants me to use them with you,” Mr. McCall says easily, sliding the lacy panties up over his thighs and soft cocklet. The fabric cups him gently, the strings a little loose around his hips. “How else will you learn to be a good Omega?”

Mr. McCall picks up the rest of the soft fabric and shakes out what Stiles can identify as a sheer top. He’s made to sit up, his head spinning, as he’s encased in a satiny, open dress. 

“My little babydoll,” Mr. McCall murmurs. He slides up Stiles’ body until his knees straddle Stiles’ chest. The lingerie is too big for Stiles, and Mr. McCall bunches up the cups of the top and thrusts his cock under the fabric. 

“Your little tits don’t even fill the bra,” Mr. McCall chastises, rutting his cockhead against one of Stiles’ nipples. “They would fill out if I bred you. When you’re old enough, I can make them swell and get a proper titfuck out of you.”

He scoots up more, abandoning the camisole for now and leaning over Stiles’ head, his heavy sack brushing warm and coarse over Stiles’ panting mouth. The smell of him is as intense as ever, and Stiles wrinkles his nose as Mr. McCall widens his stance, bringing the hanging skin closer. It mashes against his nose, the sparse hairs bristly and sharp like his beard. 

“You like Daddy’s Alpha musk, son?” Mr. McCall asks, reaching down to grip Stiles by the jaw. “I’ll train your baby cunt to fucking  gush whenever you get a whiff.”

Stiles knows now that Scott’s dad doesn’t really expect an answer to his questions. He prefers Stiles not say anything unless he tells him to.

“Open your mouth,” he grunts, his think fingers already crawling over Stiles’ teeth, prying him open. “Omegas have such pretty holes.”

Stiles squirms as Mr. McCall pokes around the soft, vulnerable tissue of his cheeks, scraping his nails over his tongue and prodding the back of his throat. He whines as Mr. McCall stuffs his swollen balls in his mouth, the taste of it exploding and chasing away the lingering sweetness of the soda. Stiles chokes, his hands finally lifting from the soft sheets, but Mr. McCall hunches over and snatches them up, circling his hips all the while. 

The length of Mr. McCall’s cock strokes against his face, dropping burning globs of come. Stiles shudders and closes his eyes, wetness smearing into his hair and nose, and suffocating him with the stench of Alpha seed. 

“I could fucking shoot off right in your eyes, Omega,” Mr. McCall groans. “Blind you, lead you on a leash. Isn’t that where you belong, sweetheart? Tied down and wearing my crusty come like a second skin?”

Mr. McCall grips Stiles’ chin and shakes his gaping mouth until he’s stuffed him to the tonsils. 

Stiles heaves, trying to come up off the mattress, but Mr. McCall sits on him, his full weight crushing his neck and making it impossible to breathe.

“You vomit on my cock, and I’ll make you suck it off until it shines.”

Stiles sobs, weak and trapped. Mr. McCall pulls away, his sack leaving Stiles‘ mouth with a messy string of drool. It drips on Stiles’ chest, cold and slimy. Mr. McCall pets his hair gently, coos softly.

“Easy,” he whispers, running his fingers back over Stiles’ slobbery chin and mouth. “You’re so wet here, it’s like you have another little cunt. You’re such a good Omega, honey; dripping for Alpha cock.”

Stiles sniffs, leaning into the soft touches, and Mr. McCall laughs. He pats his head again.

“Is that what you want? You want me to breed this sloppy cunt?”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, feels warm and tingly. He wishes Mr. McCall would let go of his hands so he can reach down where he’s starting to ache, where the tickle of Mrs. McCall’s panties has become unbearable.. His cocklet feels heavy lying on his stomach, and Stiles just wants to make it better. He shakes his head, rubbing his thighs together and making a small noise.  

“Oh, honey,” Mr. McCall sighs. “Of course you want it. Open your mouth more.”

Stiles obeys, rubbing his butt against the sheets. The rough string between his cheeks scrapes against his cunt. He’s spreading a dampness down there and shivers whenever the fabric rubs delicately over his exposed hole. He used to have to be opened with Mr. McCall’s thick ring finger before his breeding hole would leak freely, but he’s fixed now.

“Mr. McCall...” he whispers around the fingers pressing down on his tongue. 

He’s ignored, and Stiles feels embarrassed, prickly.

“D-Daddy,” he chokes, and can’t open his eyes.

Mr. McCall groans. “Yeah, baby?” 

“My… my. It’s… please.”

He makes a questioning noise and glances over his shoulder to where Stiles is grinding his ass into the bed. He laughs out right, slaps Stiles’ thigh playfully.

“Look at your trained cunt work,” he chuckles. “Is it hungry, son?”

Mr. McCall reached for the bedside table, his hot cock throbbing on Stiles’ forehead. 

“Here,” he says, and holds up something round and shiny. “For your empty cumdump.”

Stiles blinks in horror. It’s a glass bottle, a strange undulating cylindrical shape, with a wide top and bulbous bottom. That’s…

He shakes his head furiously as Mr. McCall reaches between Stiles’ legs, nudging them apart with the cold bottle. Miss Melissa’s perfume.

“Nonono,” he begs, but the thick base is already sliding the panties aside in the oily slick coming from Stiles’ cunt and pressing against his open rim. Mr. McCall rolls it between his cheeks, then slides it in, and the stretch makes Stiles gasp and cry, the edges hard and freezing on his lush insides. The tapered center gives his muscles something to flutter around, until Mr. McCall pushes it further until he’s sure there is no part but the little spray nozzle left, peeking outside his puffy hole. He feels come spurt from his little cock and sprinkle over his belly.

“It’ll get lost,” he whimpers.

“Christ don’t they teach Omegas about their own snatch these days?”

Mr. McCall thrusts the perfume bottle in and out a few times, until Stiles is writhing and misty eyed.

“I know, it’s not as big as my dick, but it’ll hold you over for our exercise today. Gotta train your mouth.”

Stiles is gaping, clenching around the hard shape keeping him full, tranquil and calming down.

Mr. McCall looks down at him with a fond smile and spits into Stiles’ open mouth.

Stiles jerks but can’t move away as fingers spread the fresh spit around his drying lips. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll have your mouth behaving soon too. It’ll drool every time I pull my cock out.”

Mr. McCall finally guides the fat head of his cock to Stiles’ mouth, rubs it against his messy chin. Stiles looks down his nose at the dark flesh, and it looks a lot bigger from this angle. His throat clicks loudly through his open mouth as he swallows, afraid.

“It’ll slide right in, sweetheart,” Mr. McCall reassures, stroking Stiles’ cheek. “Omega throats were made to warm their Alpha’s knot. Mind your teeth.”

Stiles whines as the cock slides over his tongue and gags when it reaches the back of his mouth. He reaches up to push Mr. McCall back, and finds he’s only half way.

“Come on, be a good Omega. Open up.” He sounds impatient, rutting in short rocking thrusts into the barrier of his throat. “Tilt your head back.”

He does, opening his mouth wider to get more air, and Mr. McCall thrusts forward steadily. Stiles feels his cock click by the ring of his throat as his breath is cut short and he feels like he’s swallowing fire. He gags, wretches, shudders through his whole body. He can feel tears dripping down his cheeks and nose, and he looks up at Mr. McCall, begging he’ll pull back so he can breathe.

He does, hips flexing over Stiles, but he thrusts right back in with a loud groan.

“ Ooh , Omega throat is divine. I could fuck your throat inside out and still want to keep at it.”

Mr. McCall sets a fast pace that leaves Stiles gagging and belching every time his withdraws, unable to calm himself enough to take a breath. He coughs and cries, and still Mr. McCall fucks through it.

“I’m gonna have you do this all the time, baby, I’ll fuck a hole through your head.”

Stiles finally gets a breath in, but inhales his own saliva and winds up heaving it all out on the next gap between thrusts. He’s lightheaded, that heavy drowsiness returning, leaving his limbs warm and detached. He lets Mr. McCall hold his head up however he wants, his neck to hurt to want to work.

“I’m gonna blow,” he wheezes. “I’m gonna breed you full of my spunk until it sprays out your nose. Squeeze my knot.”

Stiles endures the last of the jarring thrusts that jackrabbit into his skull, hand coming up to cup the swelling knot ramming against his teeth. The force of it rocks him against the spring mattress back and forth, into Mr. McCall’s cock and the solid bottle twisting and bruising inside his cunt.

“You’re nothing but an Alpha waste dump. You’ll swallow my come and then I’ll piss right in your fucking lungs, and you’ll take it even if you drown.”

He finally comes, and Stiles fights to keep down the thick clumps of seed sliding down his ravaged  throat. He can feel the swollen knot pressing against his chin and sobs, relieved he hadn’t been made to hold it in his too-small jaw. It pulses in his hand, monstrous and angry. 

His whole upper body throbs and burns, his chest constricted to suffocation, his neck and head pounding viciously. 

“One more thing, baby boy,” Mr. McCall croons softly, his hips flexing and twitching. Stiles knows what’s going to happen. He’s taken Mr. McCall’s piss in his cunt every time he’s bred, but he had hoped Mr. McCall would skip it this time. 

Stiles holds Mr. McCall’s sweaty knot as it shrinks, and just as it recedes to normal size, the first jet of piss hits the back of his tongue. He chokes, his mouth filling faster than he can force himself to swallow, and it streams down his neck and soaks his hair. He can feel it spreading to the dress, the fabric sticking to his skin and teasing his nipples.

“Drink up, son. You’ve been so good today.”

Stiles cries as he tries to hold his breath and swallow the jerking flow of piss. He tries not to smell it, tries not to notice the taste. His stomach churns as he manages a second mouth full, and hiccups in relief when the stream starts to lessen. Mr. McCall sighs and pulls his cock from Stiles’ mouth, splashing him in the face and chest with the last of his piss. Stiles closes his eyes and shies away. 

He doesn’t open them even as Mr. McCall slinks into the mattress beside him and has him turn his back to him on his side. Stiles presses his wet, sticky cheek into the blankets, and Mr. McCall rubs his hand down his back until his finds the bottle plugging his ass and grips it. Stiles yowls and shakes as he’s fucked with the object, it’s relentless shape battering him. He feels that aching tightness inside where he feels empty without the swell of a knot and the flood of come. 

“You’d let me fuck you with anything, so long as it’s big enough, wouldn’t you sweetie?”

Stiles shakes his head into the pillows. They’re wet and sopping with the stench of piss.

“I could fuck you with Scotty’s Wii remote, and you’d love every second.”

Stiles burns in humiliation, that he can recall the thick girth of the remote in his hand and shiver of need at the thought. He cries out desperately, his hole clenching and sucking on the bottle every time it forces its way inward. He can hear the wet squelch of it, the foamy slide of slick running down the crease of his thigh. He wants to touch his cocklet. It hurts and throbs, but he’s not allowed to touch it. It’s only good for looking.

“Scotty would probably help you. He’d see you hungry for his toy and watch you swallow it up. Anything could go in your wasted cunt after that.”

Mr. McCall mashes his palm into Stiles’ chest, rubbing the tacky, wet lingerie against his peaked nipples. He twists the bottle in his cunt and punches the puckered skin under his fingers. Stiles comes with a loud wail, hands flying to his spurting cock to hold it as it lurches and sputters. 

He trembles as the bottle is removed and set back on the bedside table, shiny and making a puddle of his slick on the tabletop. Mr. McCall lifts Stiles from the bed, the too large panties falling and catching around his knees, the straps of the dress falling off his shoulders. Mr. McCall carries him to the bathroom and sits in the shower with Stiles in his lap, back to chest. Mr. McCall doesn’t take the panties or dress off, just fists the fabric until the strings dig in Stiles’ soft sin. He’s peppered with kisses on his neck and back and lifted until he’s sat back down on Mr. McCall’s half hard cock. 

Stiles moans, the noise loud in the quiet shower, his voice cracked. He wiggles a little, his cunt dripping around the hot length flexing inside him. 

Mr. McCall turns the shower on, and it sprays right in Stiles’ face. He startles when a warm rag rubs over his thighs while a hand massages his throat where he’s still sandpapery sore. The lingerie sags under the water, hanging off Stiles like chains. 

His eyes are raw from crying, and the sting of his throat is worse in the steam of the shower. Mr. McCall hushes his whining complaints and continues to wipe him down gently with a soapy rag, mouthing at one of his shoulders and just barely rolling his hips. 

“What do you say for being playmated so well, honey?” he whispers over the soft rush of water.

Stiles bounces restlessly a little, tugging the panties cutting into his knees. The cock in him swells a little, turning rigid where Stiles has gone plush. 

“Thank you, Daddy.”

****  
  



	4. Fruit Gushers

Stiles thinks his lessons with Mr. McCall will go on forever.

While Scott and all the other kids move on to the group play dates, Mr. McCall’s burgundy lexus cruises into the driveway every Sunday morning to pick him up. His dad seems to forget about the arrangement, never stirring from the dining room where he’s fallen asleep awashed in open case files, the sharp scent of gin lingering in the hall. Stiles leaves his dad a peanut butter sandwich with the crusts cut off for when he wakes up, made just the way his mom used to.

Mr. McCall grips his thigh on the way to Scott’s house, where it’s empty and quiet while Miss Melissa and Scott are at Sunday School. Mr. McCall slips him a little baggy, heavy and solid when he buckles up. He calls them toys, and they’re different every time. This one is white and pink, marbled and wide.

“Pop that into your little pussy for me, honey. Need you ready when we get home.”

Stiles flushes.

He wiggles in his seat and pulls his elastic shorts and panties down. The leather seats are hot on his thighs and he struggles with the seatbelt until his can reach under himself with the round plug. They get bigger every week. It’s a part of his training, Mr. McCall says, and Stiles agrees because it doesn’t hurt so much when Mr. McCall knots him now.

He slides the cool surface of the little fake knot along his thighs then between his cheeks, wriggling. His mouth hangs open as Mr. McCall backs out of the driveway. His little hole resists, still mostly dry.

“Need help, baby?”

“I got it,” he pants, twisting the hard knob until it makes his cunt gape and leak, his coklet twiching in the cool AC. It gets sucked inside until the base rests between his sensitive cheeks. He pulls his shorts back up around his hips and sits up. He squirms around the thickness resting heavy inside and bounces in his seat. He gasps every time Mr. McCall hits a pothole, whines.

“I know sweetheart, I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

Stiles is in Mrs. Gardner’s fourth grade Reading class on Monday, and he hasn’t seen Scott all morning when he is called to the Principal’s office.

It’s not the first time. When his mom died last year, he was called in to see the school’s counselor, Ms. Morrell, and he has since been sent to the Principal for disciplinary reasons in between, usually with Scott in tow.

“Stiles, honey,” Deputy Goodman says when he reaches the front desk and sees two other of his dad’s deputies waiting around. Deputy Goodman smiles at him soft and easy, and Stiles’ stomach lurches.

“Is Dad okay?” he blurts, chewing the string of his pull-over until it frays and grits in his teeth. He remembers the last time the deputies came for him at school, an afternoon when they’d taken him to the hospital and he hadn’t gone home until his mom had gone cold. His hands are sweaty, and Dad says that’s normal for kids, but he’s getting kind of scared.

“The Sheriff is fine, kiddo. He’s—” her voice does this weird warble as she clears her throat. “He’s waiting for you down at the station. We’re going to check you out of school today.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Deputy Goodman wipes her palms on her crisp-pressed trousers.

“We um, need your help solving a crime.”

Stiles can hardly believe it. He gapes up at the deputy, barely containing the sudden excitement buzzing through his body.

“Reallyreallyreally?” he spouts, clinging to her waist and stepping up on her boots like he used to do when he was younger and not grown up. She laughs short and hard.

“Yeah, buddy. Let’s go.”

He rides her feet to the cruiser parked right out the front of Beacon Hills Elementary and demands to be allowed to sit in the front.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he chants, even though he’s already sitting in the passenger seat. “Can I turn on the lights? Can we speed with the sirens going?”

The radio clicks on to report a 10-70.

“Can I answer that?” Stiles asks. “That means a fire alarm, are we going? Can we go put out a fire?”

“Let’s stick to solving one crime at a time,” the deputy riding in the back says. He sounds bitter, so Stiles settles in his seat with a huff.

* * *

 

John Stilinski sits stiffly at his desk as his deputies bring his son to him. The Omega Wellness and Healthcare Center had contacted him through their representative at the station and requested an urgent investigation into his son’s health.

“There is no need to panic before we have all of the information, Mr. Stilinski,” they had told him over the phone. “We have had the department arrange for Stiles to be brought to you. The doctor considered it best considering the… tenuous position you’re in. SVU will be present by the time you get here with your son, and they can answer all your questions about the situation and the related arrests.”

SVU? _Special Victims Unit? Arrests?_

John taps his pen against his desk. He doesn’t understand what is happening, and the picture he’s beginning to get from it all is even worse than if someone would just tell him.

“Dad!”

John jerks out of his chair as his son barges through his ajar office door. He’s smiling, but Goodman looms behind him with a grim expression.

“Sir,” she says with a nod.

“Dad, Deputy Goodman says I’m supposed to help solve a crime with my detective skills.”

John leans a hand against his desk as Stiles chirps and rattles away about all the police codes he’s been learning and the books he’s been reading, and Jesus. _Jesus_.

John looks at him, really squints at his son, but there’s nothing there, nothing _wrong_. What is happening?

His deputy drives them the ten minutes to the Omega Center and they’re led by a smartly dressed agent into the abuse and investigation department. John is ill, his forehead pounding. He keeps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder who is still talking like he’s made of lungs, like he thinks they’re here for someone else.

They stop in a hall. The walls are painted half white and yellow, an illustration of a beehive at the end with cartoonish worker bees smiling down at them. They are in the child trauma and counseling wing. John has had to escort kids and parents to this hall.

“I’m not getting more shots, am I?” Stiles whispers upon seeing the group of severe looking adults grouped in the hall.

“Mr. Stilinski,” a woman steps forward, who John knows is Dr. Drew, head of this department. They shake hands, though John can hardly feel the cold cinderblocks of his palms. She smiles down at Stiles. “And Stiles. I haven’t seen you in years. You’re practically a man.”

Stiles puffs out, smug.

“Why don’t you go have a seat in this waiting room while I talk to your dad? There are a few books and crossword puzzles. Legos too.”

Stiles goes easily into the side room filled with children’s toys and preoccupations. A nurse follows him.

Dr. Drew takes John into the adjoining room, a two-way mirror showing Stiles in the other room twitching in his seat, the nurse absently fiddling with some puzzle pieces.

“John,” Dr. Drew says gently. “These are Detectives Bensen and Wright. They were alerted to some… disturbing information from the local Mating Therapy Center. A couple of group therapists called after learning of potentially illegal activity.”

“But,” John says, parched and croaking. “But Stiles hasn’t participated in any group play mating.”

“We know, Sheriff Stilinski,” one of the detectives says gently. “A young Alpha, Scott McCall, does, and he had some very enlightening things to say about Stiles. About Rafael McCall.”

The pressure in the room slams in on John, his blood bubbling, eardrums hissing.

They tell him that Scott had confessed to having overheard and seen Rafael McCall playmating Stiles. Breaking rules. _My dad says coaches have different rules_ , he’d said to the overseeing group therapist Laura Hale.

They tell him they’ve been speaking with Scott in a different room with Melissa all day. That Scott is scared he’s done something wrong because Melissa cries, but is overall earnest and honest to their inquiries. _How long has your dad coached Stiles? Have you ever seen your dad try to undress Stiles? Has your dad ever hurt anyone? Is your dad coaching any other Omegas?_

They tell him they’ve arrested Rafael McCall for the endangerment and sexual assault of three minors: Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent and Isaac Lahey. That Melissa allowed a search of the house without a warrant. That they found Stiles’ DNA in their masterbedroom. In the attached bathroom. On sex… on sextoys in the closet.

Even Melissa is being investigated as an accomplice.

John sits at the table in the metal fold-up chair as they tell him all of this, and he thinks of every time he’s handed his son, _his baby_ , into Rafael’s hands for _months_ while he drank and worked and drank and worked. Every time Rafael shook his hand and smiled and said _Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled_.

“We need to do a thorough examination of Stiles,” Dr. Drew says. “There could be any number of health complications because of this, from cervical displacement to hormonal imbalance to pregnancy—”

John lurches forward, face in his hands. He heaves.

“John,” Dr. Drew sighs gently, her hand on his shoulder blade. “You have been here for every victim in your jurisdiction, offering them support. The detectives and my team will see you and Stiles through this personally.”

So John nods. He nods and he goes with Detective Bensen to sit with Stiles and they tell Stiles they need to ask him some questions about his sessions with Mr. McCall. And Bensen pulls out the chart, the one with the two dimensional body. She asks Stiles to show her where Mr. McCall would touch him. It’s like out of a TV drama. It isn’t real.

It’s about the time she’s asking if Mr. McCall ever initiated penetration that Stiles seems to realize this isn’t a normal situation. He begins glancing at John with eyes that keep getting bigger. John holds him through a series of jitters and when they _finally_ tell Stiles the truth of it, that Mr. McCall broke the law, that what he was doing is _wrong_ , Stiles looks at John, his voice robbed from him. John has never felt more like a failure. He holds him when Dr. Drew asks Stiles to change into a thin white robe and tells him they’re going to do a physical and take some tests. John helps his kid out of his jeans and shirt and _sees_ —

It all gets recorded in the bodiless, detached way in a file with Stiles’ full name on it. They take pictures of the bite marks on Stiles’ back. The bruises between his thighs and ankles. They write down the way Stiles’ heat glands beside his lymphnodes feel enlarged and and sore. They have Stiles lie back on the exam table, feet in stirrups. Dr. Drew touches Stiles’ inner thigh and warns there might be some pain. John holds his baby boy’s hand, and he can’t be sure who squeezes hardest.

“Intravaginal bruising,” Dr. Drew says indifferently from between Stiles’ spread legs, and the nurse at her shoulder writes it down. “Chronic muscular elasticity loss. Almost done, honey.”

Stiles whimpers, and when John looks down, there are tears trailing over his cheeks and into his ears.

“No lesions or cervical prolapse.”

Stiles is shaking, and John pets his hair with clumsy fingers.

Dr. Drew withdraws, and Stiles’ body collapses against the table. He’s making these soft sniffling noises, these gentle sobs, and John just can’t deal with this. He pulls Stiles’ robe back over his thighs and pulls him into his lap where Stiles seems to crumble. The small exam room is filled with his hoarse cries and wet hiccups, and Dr. Drew rests her hand on John’s shoulder after pulling off her gloves.

“We’ll need a urine and blood sample next. Nurse Tom here will show Stiles to the bathroom when he’s ready.”

They leave them in the room, and John just spends the next few minutes trying to grasp this. It’s been like a horror show these last three hours, and it’s only the beginning.

Stiles stands on shaky legs, and as he disappears with the nurse down the hall, John is overcome by panic at seeing him gone. He reaches for the empty door frame, fighting another spasm in his gut. He paces until Stiles returns, then holds him again as Dr. Drew calmly and quickly sticks Stiles’ arm and draws blood. Stiles goes a little incoherent, his head dropping to his chest at the sight of the needles.

“All done, kiddo,” Dr. Drew announces, passing the tray of blood samples to her nurse. “The front desk will get all the paperwork sorted for a school and work pardon. We will call you when we have run all the tests. And the detectives will probably be by your house next week in order to further their investigation.”

Stiles is practically nonverbal as he pulls his clothes back on. He looks at the ground and no where else as they make their way back down the hall with Deputy Goodman.

“How about a piggy back ride?” she asks Stiles with a grin. John is signing a receipt as Stiles shakes his head. He presses into John’s side and raises his arms until John takes the hint. He lifts his kid and holds him on his hip as he accepts the last of the paperwork. Stiles rubs his face against John’s neck and shirt collar, his fingers pulling on his Sheriff’s badge. John nearly drowns in the surge of guilt the gesture brings.

“Sheriff?”

John pauses, grits his teeth. He adjusts his hold on Stiles so that he is comfortably cradled in the slope of his arm. He turns to see Chris Argent walking through the glass rotating doors. His daughter, Allison, is trailing behind him, glancing curiously around the entrance hall. Every Omega has been to this center, for health check-ups and playmating education, but it’s obvious Allison knows this isn’t a regular visit.

“Chris,” John greets, his voice thin and brittle in the wide hall.

“Some detectives asked me to bring Allison down.”

John clears his throat. “Yeah, same for me and Stiles.”

Chris inclines his chin. His eyes are sharp, keen.

“Something to do with an arrest this morning in the neighborhood, maybe?”

Allison tilts her head, clearly listening. She’s as sharp as her father.

“...Maybe,” John concedes. He motions to Deputy Goodman and they head for the doors.

“Sheriff, I’m trusting you that the arrest will stick,” Chris calls at his back.

John hesitates at the door.

“Trust me, Chris. Even if the charges somehow fall through, this man will never escape police custody.”

“I’m happy to volunteer with the department again, if you get a little short handed.”

There is a pregnant pause in which Deputy Goodman pretends to be distracted by something outside. John looks at Chris, at his stern expression, his hand on Allison’s head.

“Absolutely.”

When they get home, the quiet compared to the noise of a clinic and the constant hiss of the police scanner is intimidating. They sit at the kitchen bar, and John doesn’t know what to say. What can he say that will erase the handprint of Rafael fucking McCall from his baby’s skin?

“You hungry?” he asks.

Stiles shakes his head. He’s chewing on the drawstring of his coat.

John sighs.

“How about a bath.”

Stiles glances up finally. His eyes and lips are abused purple-red. He gives a tiny nod.

John hasn’t used the big bathtub in his and Claudia’s bathroom since long before she fell ill. There is a layer of dust on the ceramic that John rinses away. He fills the tub a lot higher than is practical, and pours a large portion of Claudia’s body wash he’s been holding onto. It bubbles and creates a thin film of lavender suds over the water’s surface. It smells like the sweet wild flowers that bloom all over the county in the spring and fresh mint, some discontinued Bath and Body scent called Summer Amethyst. He remembers pressing his lips to Claudia’s mole speckled shoulders, the soft smell lingering on her clean skin like a shawl.

Stiles doesn’t tell John to go away like he normally would. At just a few months short of ten, Stiles had been very adamant about his privacy, refusing to undress in front of him and demanding showers without John checking on him. It’s a dramatic change from Stiles running around the house naked just a couple of years ago.

He wonders now, if half the reason Stiles demanded privacy is because of the mottled green-purple bruises clustered on his back and chest.

Stiles sinks into the water, his face relaxed and still. He obviously knows the significance of the soap in the water. He cups it in his hands and brings it to his face until his lips press into the water.

John grabs a bottle of shampoo and squeezes some into his palm.

“He wanted me to call him Daddy.”

It takes several seconds for John to first comprehend what Stiles is saying and then to calm down from the blinding rage that sweeps through him. He rubs shampoo through Stiles’ buzzed hair and down his neck.

“He said he’d teach me to be a good Omega.”

“Close your eyes,” John murmurs, kneading his fingers over Stiles’ scalp. “You are a good Omega, son.”

Stiles sniffles loudly.

“Rinse,” he says, and Stiles dunks under the water.

When he comes back up, he rubs his eyes tiredly.

“You are a perfect Omega, Stiles. There is no wrong way to be an Omega.”

Stiles just stares up at him, drenched and shivering.

“Well,” he amends. “There is one wrong way. And that’s what ever the hell Rafael was making you do.”

Stiles just sinks his chin into the steaming water. John soaps up a washcloth and hopes the scent of his mother and the chaste touch of his father washing him will help Stiles feel clean again.

It’s three days later the Omega Center calls John.

“Stiles is negative for any disease,” Dr. Drew is saying. “But—John. He’s pregnant.”

John spears his knuckles into his temples and wonders how much worse things can get when he’d thought they couldn’t.

“We can’t—we’re not going to tell him,” he chokes. “Just, schedule the—”

God, maybe when Stiles is older, John will explain in a few years that the check-up they go to, the check-up where Dr. Drew inserts an instrument that vacuum sucks the embryonic material from Stiles’ uteral lining with a loud lurch of sucking machinery; maybe he will tell Stiles it isn’t just a strange examination, but something inside John never wishes to tell his son he’s had an abortion at nine years old.

 ****  



	5. Beef Jerky

Rafael McCall's bail is set at sixty-thousand pending his trial. He can’t afford it, and Melissa doesn’t offer to help raise it. Stiles overhears her on the phone asking his dad if she can file for a divorce while her husband is in jail. He googles _divorce_ and worries.

Stiles thinks his dad probably expected some resistance from him when he brought up talking to all the legal representatives they need in order to convict, but Stiles is relieved to help. He tells all the deputies he’s helping solve a crime, and they smile tentatively. He wants to feel pride. He starts to construct the idea that he had been solving a crime the whole time. That he had been undercover in order to expose Mr. McCall’s unlawful behavior, and it was all a part of the job.

Sometimes that makes it worse.

He doesn’t go to school, and his dad doesn’t say anything about it. Stiles misses Scott, but whenever he thinks about calling him, his chest goes really tight and his eyes clench closed. Grown-ups look at him wherever he goes; when they go grocery shopping or when he goes for a haircut. They watch him like they’re wary, following his every movement. He starts just staying home.

His dad takes off from work, but Stiles doesn’t think drifting around the house in mismatched socks, watching old cop movies counts as vacation. The first day he stays home, Stiles comes to the kitchen for a pop-tart to find his dad pouring his expensive bourbon down the sink.

“Wasn’t that a gift?” he asks weakly.

“I’m more of an apple juice kind of guy,” his dad grouses, eyes still crusted with sleep and red in the corners.

Stiles never sees him drink again.

A week after Mr. McCall is placed under investigation, he goes missing. Stiles sees it on the news while his dad is out on a milk and bread run. Deputy Goodman’s on the front porch filling in a sudoku puzzle.

They find him hiding under his dad’s bed, his face marked with carpet burn where he can’t stop shaking his head. He wonders what will happen if Rafael finds him. If he’ll be mad that Stiles got him in trouble. If he’ll make Stiles prove he’s sorry.

“It’s okay, baby,” his dad says, dragging him out and into his lap. “He can’t get to you. No one is going to come get you.”

“Do you know where he is?” he demands, looking at his dad’s tired face.

He looks determined and helpless all at once, and Stiles wonders why things are so messy.

“I know he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. And I know he’s not coming anywhere near you.”

He pulls Stiles into a hug, and Stiles sees Deputy Goodman glancing over her shoulder at them. She smiles grimly at Stiles. “Let us worry about McCall. I get the feeling he’s long gone.”

Stiles is dozing off against his dad’s knee when the phone rings. He doesn’t stir, rubbing his cheek against the stiff denim and tangling his fingers in his dad’s shoelaces.

His dad had been uncomfortable about the position at first, but curling by his feet and resting his head on his thigh made all the anxiousness slithering along his insides quiet. He couldn’t do anything bad or wrong here, he didn’t have to think.

“Don’t you want to sit up here with me, kiddo?” he asks, patting the couch cushion hopefully, holding the still ringing phone aloft.

Stiles shakes his head without looking up. He watches the news channel dully, not really listening. He recognizes his own face flashing across the screen. A woman is asking if this is another example of why Omegas are bad for society.

“Hello?” his dad says gruffly into the phone, changing the channel and petting Stiles’ hair idly. “Hey, Chris. Taking a chance to be calling so soon, aren’t you?”

Stiles chews on the collar of his over-large t-shirt. He could fake a run to the bathroom and grab the other house phone to listen in, but he’s feeling a little tired of detective work. He can think about Chris Argent later.

“I’m glad to hear your hunting trip went so well.”

Stiles is tying the shoelaces into slip knots around his finger tips.

“We really appreciate your help with controling the predator population in the Preserve. I’ll see you at the station some time.”

His dad hangs up and heaves a long sigh. He looks down at Stiles and smiles.

His dad has to go to the station the next day. Deputy Goodman takes Stiles for a ride around town.

“He just has to answer a few questions,” she tells him over ice cream. “Important Sheriff stuff.”

Stiles knows that’s code for withholding information. He doesn’t mind overly much when he’s got a scoop of peanut butter ice cream under his nose. It’s long past dark when his dad finally comes home. Stiles peels his eyes open and unsticks his face from the couch.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Stiles sits up a little more and holds his arms up. His dad stoops over, grasping him under the arms, and lifts him.

“Oooh, my back,” he teases, pretending to drop Stiles.

Stiles grumbles, wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck. They trod heavily up the stairs, and his dad drops him off in his bedroom, pulling Stiles’ comforter up to his neck and sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

“What do you say we go away for a little while?”

Stiles yawns. “Like, leave?”

“Not for forever. But maybe for a year or two.”

“But?” Stiles stutters. “My friends? And school! And...”

Stiles tries to imagine going back to those things and stalls.

“But you’re the Sheriff, and you said justice never sleeps. You can’t leave!”

His dad laughs a little.

“There will be other Sheriffs. And I’ve always wanted to go to Seattle.”

Stiles doesn’t know much about Seattle. His dad has a cousin there that visited once, and it gave him the impression it was a weird kind of place.

“...Not forever, though?”

His dad nods.

“Okay.”

 


End file.
